Chapter 29
第二十九章
秋尽冬来。维克斯到柏林听保尔森讲学去了，海沃德开始考虑去南方。当地的剧院在上演各种戏目。菲利普和海沃德每周要跑两三次戏院。看戏的目的倒也颇值得嘉许，乃是为了提高他们的德语水平。菲利普发觉，通过这种途径来掌握语言比听牧师布道更生动有趣。他们置身于戏剧的复兴浪潮之中。冬季准备上演的剧目中，有好几出易卜生的戏剧。苏台尔曼的《荣誉》是一部新作，它上演之后，使这座恬静的大学城顿时为之哗然，有的推崇备至，有的痛加抨击。另有些剧作家也紧紧跟上，奉献了不少在新思潮影响下写成的剧本。菲利普眼界大开，在他看到的一系列剧作中，人类的罪恶暴露无遗。在此之前，他还从未看过话剧（有时候，一些可怜巴巴的巡回剧团也来布莱克斯泰勃的村会议厅演出，但是那位教区牧师一则碍于自己的职业，二则认为看戏有失风雅，所以从不肯屈尊赏脸），他被舞台上人物的喜怒哀乐深深吸引住了。他一走进灯光暗淡的蹩脚小戏馆，就感到心弦颤动。没多久，菲利普对那小剧团的特色已了如指掌。只要看一下演员角色的分派情况，就能立刻说出剧中人物的性格特征；不过这并不影响菲利普的兴致。在他看来，戏剧是真实生活，那是一种阴森而痛苦的奇怪生活，男男女女都把自己内心的邪念暴露在无情的睽睽泯众目之下：姣好的容貌把堕落的灵魂包藏了起来；君子淑女拿德行当作掩饰丑恶隐私的面具；徒有其表的强者由于自身的弱点而逐渐演为色厉内荏；诚实之徒并不诚实；高洁之辈原是荡妇、淫棍。你恍惚置身于这样一个房间：前一夜，人们在这儿纵酒宴乐，清晨，窗户尚未打开，空气浑浊不堪，酒残烟陈，杯盘狼藉，煤气灯还在闪亮。台下没有爽朗的笑声，至多也只是对那些伪君子或傻瓜蛋窃笑几声罢了：剧中人自我表白时所使用的残忍言词，仿佛是在羞痛交逼之下硬从心坎里挤出来的。
菲利普完全被这人间的罪恶渊薮迷住了。他似乎是按另一种方式重新审视着世界，对于眼前的这个世界他也渴望了解透彻。演出结束后，菲利普同海沃德一道去小酒店，坐在又明亮又暖和的店堂里，吃一客三明治，喝一杯啤酒。他们周围，三五成群的学生谈笑风生。阖家光临酒店的也不少，父母，两三个儿子，还有一个女儿。有时，女儿说了句刺耳的俏皮话，做父亲的就往椅背上一靠，仰面大笑，笑得还真欢哩。气氛极其亲切、纯真，好一幅天伦之乐图。但是，对于这一切，菲利普却视而不见。他还在回味着刚才在剧院里见到的那一幕幕。
"你不认为这就是生活吗，呢？"他激动地说。"你知道，我不会再在这儿长呆下去。我要去伦敦，开始过真正的生活。我要见见世面。老是在为生活作准备，真使人发腻：我要尝尝生活的滋味。"
有时候，海沃德让菲利普独个儿回公寓。他从不针对菲利普心急火燎的提问作出确切回答，而是无所用心地嘻嘻傻笑一声，转弯抹角地谈起。某一件风流韵事。他还引用一些岁塞蒂的诗句。有次甚至给菲利普看了一首十四行诗。诗中热情洋溢，词藻华丽，充满了悲惋凄怆的情调、全部诗情为一个名叫特鲁德的少女而发。海沃德把自己的肮脏、庸俗的无矿艳遇"，抹上一层光泽照人的诗意，还认为自己的诗笔颇得伯里克理斯和菲狄亚斯的几分遗风，因为他在描述自己所追求的意中人时特意选用了"hetaira"这样一个词而不屑从英语所提供的那些直截了当、比较贴切的字眼中挑选一个。日大，菲利普受着好奇心的驱使，曾特地去古桥附近的小街上走了一遭。街上有几幢整洁的、装有绿色百叶窗的白房子，据海沃德说，特鲁德小姐就住在那儿。但是，打门里走出来的那些女人，个个涂脂抹粉，脸带凶相，粗声粗气地同他打招呼，不能不叫他心惊肉跳。她们还伸出双粗壮的手来想把菲利普拦住，吓得他拔腿就溜。他特别渴望增加阅历，觉得自己幼稚可笑，因为自己到了这般年纪，还没有领略过所有小说作品无不渲染的那种所谓"人生最重要的东西"；不幸的是，他天生具有那种洞察事物本来面目的能力，出现在他面前的现实，同他梦境中的理想，其差别之大，有如天壤。
他不懂得在人生的旅途上，非得越过一大片干旱贫瘠、地形险恶的荒野，才能跨入活生生的现实世界。所谓"青春多幸福"的说法，不过是一种幻觉，是青春已逝的人们的一种幻觉；而年轻人知道自己是不幸的，因为他们充满了不切实际的幻想，全是从外部灌输到他们头脑里去的，每当他们同实际接触时，他们总是碰得头破血流。看来，他们似乎成了一场共谋的牺牲品，因为他们所读过的书籍（由于经过必然的淘汰，留存下来的都是尽善至美的），还有长辈之间的交谈（他们是透过健忘的玫瑰色烟雾来回首往事的），都为他们开拓了一个虚假的生活前景。年轻人得靠自己去发现：过去念到过的书，过去听到过的话，全是谎言，谎言，谎言；而且每一次的发现，又无异是往那具已被钉在生活十字架上的身躯再打入一根钉子。不可思议的是，大凡每个经历过痛苦幻灭的人，由于受到内心那股抑制不住的强劲力量的驱使，又总是有意无意地再给现实生活添上一层虚幻的色彩。对于菲利普来说，世上再不会有比与海沃德为伍更糟糕的事了。海沃德这个人是带着十足的书生气来观察周围一切的，没有一工点儿自己的看法；他很危险，是因为他欺骗自己，达到了真心诚意的地步。他真诚地错把自己的肉欲当作浪漫的恋情，错把自己的优柔寡断视为艺术家的气质，还错把自己的无所事事看成哲人的超然物外。他心智平庸，却孜孜追求高尚娴雅，因而从他眼睛里望出去，所有的事物都蒙上了一层感伤的金色雾纱，轮廓模糊不清，结果就显得比实际的形象大些。他在撒谎，却从不知道自己在撒谎；当别人点破他时，他却说谎言是美的。他是一个理想主义者。
Chapter 29
Winter set in. Weeks went to Berlin to attend the lectures of Paulssen, and Hayward began to think of going South. The local theatre opened its doors. Philip and Hayward went to it two or three times a week with the praiseworthy intention of improving their German, and Philip found it a more diverting manner of perfecting himself in the language than listening to sermons. They found themselves in the midst of a revival of the drama. Several of Ibsen’s plays were on the repertory for the winter; Sudermann’s Die Ehre was then a new play, and on its production in the quiet university town caused the greatest excitement; it was extravagantly praised and bitterly attacked; other dramatists followed with plays written under the modern influence, and Philip witnessed a series of works in which the vileness of mankind was displayed before him. He had never been to a play in his life till then (poor touring companies sometimes came to the Assembly Rooms at Blackstable, but the Vicar, partly on account of his profession, partly because he thought it would be vulgar, never went to see them) and the passion of the stage seized him. He felt a thrill the moment he got into the little, shabby, ill-lit theatre. Soon he came to know the peculiarities of the small company, and by the casting could tell at once what were the characteristics of the persons in the drama; but this made no difference to him. To him it was real life. It was a strange life, dark and tortured, in which men and women showed to remorseless eyes the evil that was in their hearts: a fair face concealed a depraved mind; the virtuous used virtue as a mask to hide their secret vice, the seeming-strong fainted within with their weakness; the honest were corrupt, the chaste were lewd. You seemed to dwell in a room where the night before an orgy had taken place: the windows had not been opened in the morning; the air was foul with the dregs of beer, and stale smoke, and flaring gas. There was no laughter. At most you sniggered at the hypocrite or the fool: the characters expressed themselves in cruel words that seemed wrung out of their hearts by shame and anguish.
Philip was carried away by the sordid intensity of it. He seemed to see the world again in another fashion, and this world too he was anxious to know. After the play was over he went to a tavern and sat in the bright warmth with Hayward to eat a sandwich and drink a glass of beer. All round were little groups of students, talking and laughing; and here and there was a family, father and mother, a couple of sons and a girl; and sometimes the girl said a sharp thing, and the father leaned back in his chair and laughed, laughed heartily. It was very friendly and innocent. There was a pleasant homeliness in the scene, but for this Philip had no eyes. His thoughts ran on the play he had just come from.
‘You do feel it’s life, don’t you?’ he said excitedly. ‘You know, I don’t think I can stay here much longer. I want to get to London so that I can really begin. I want to have experiences. I’m so tired of preparing for life: I want to live it now.’
Sometimes Hayward left Philip to go home by himself. He would never exactly reply to Philip’s eager questioning, but with a merry, rather stupid laugh, hinted at a romantic amour; he quoted a few lines of Rossetti, and once showed Philip a sonnet in which passion and purple, pessimism and pathos, were packed together on the subject of a young lady called Trude. Hayward surrounded his sordid and vulgar little adventures with a glow of poetry, and thought he touched hands with Pericles and Pheidias because to describe the object of his attentions he used the word hetaira instead of one of those, more blunt and apt, provided by the English language. Philip in the daytime had been led by curiosity to pass through the little street near the old bridge, with its neat white houses and green shutters, in which according to Hayward the Fraulein Trude lived; but the women, with brutal faces and painted cheeks, who came out of their doors and cried out to him, filled him with fear; and he fled in horror from the rough hands that sought to detain him. He yearned above all things for experience and felt himself ridiculous because at his age he had not enjoyed that which all fiction taught him was the most important thing in life; but he had the unfortunate gift of seeing things as they were, and the reality which was offered him differed too terribly from the ideal of his dreams.
He did not know how wide a country, arid and precipitous, must be crossed before the traveller through life comes to an acceptance of reality. It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to it in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself. The companionship of Hayward was the worst possible thing for Philip. He was a man who saw nothing for himself, but only through a literary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he had deceived himself into sincerity. He honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for the artistic temperament, and his idleness for philosophic calm. His mind, vulgar in its effort at refinement, saw everything a little larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in a golden mist of sentimentality. He lied and never knew that he lied, and when it was pointed out to him said that lies were beautiful. He was an idealist.